Whofly: The TARDISian Firefly Chronicles
by RussianWolf7
Summary: An event flings the TARDIS through the Time Vortex, picking up a few old friends along the way. She crash lands in the cargo bay of one spaceship class Firefly, smoking and unusable, rendering any transport impossible. Put three regenerations of the Doctor, Rose, Donna, Amy, Rory, River Song, Mal, Inara, Kaylee, Jayne, Simon, River Tam, Wash, and Zoe in a room and see what happens.
1. Bloody Gorram Time - Let me hold your

**A/N: **Hello my friends! First off, the obvious: no, this is not a Harry Potter story. I'm a little shocked myself. But stay tuned, Potter friends, more is always on the way.

This story started out as a joke, to be honest. My friend Jaime and I were talking about two of our favorite fandoms—Who and Firefly—and started making a list of what the pairings would be if they collided. Then we decided it absolutely _must_ be written.

And then I forgot.

Maybe a week later I was complaining that I wanted to _write_, all I wanted to do was _write_ but I didn't have any ideas. Jaime reminded me of our list, and AHA! An idea!

This is a story told in eight chapters, one for each pairing (though I think I'll keep those to myself, seeing as spoilers). All the chapters are happening at once, roughly speaking, but fret not, I am keeping good track of the timeline. It shouldn't be at all confusing for you—I'll make it clear where each chapter starts and ends, and all will be well. You might see certain events from different points of view, but that's all.

I'm nervous about this guy, I'm not going to lie. But fantastic, allons-y, Geronimo, and, if there is a sudden but inevitable betrayal in which my entire fanbase leaves, I will understand.

**Chapter One**

**Bloody Gorram Time; "Let me hold your burdens."**

**1**

It wasn't the TARDIS. That was obvious, nothing was the TARDIS, but the Doctor was quite sure it wasn't the TARDIS. Not only was it not the TARDIS, but he wasn't even the Doctor. Strictly speaking that wasn't true, of course he was, but since the—_event—_he went by Nine.

He shuddered. He hated the _event_ and he hated being called Nine. He was more than his regeneration. He was The Doctor. But after a long drawn-out argument with—himself?—they had decided none of them were allowed to claim the title as their name.

The _event_ made everyone live. Nine liked that. But he really didn't see the need for three regenerations of himself to all live at once.

He looked around the cargo bay, arms crossed and brow furrowed. The TARDIS sat in one corner, still smoking from the bloody _event_. Boxes littered the room, seemingly at random. A quick glance to the right showed a "secret" compartment off to the right. He thought he'd keep that to himself; as long as he was mingling with the locals, he probably oughtn't broadcast things he shouldn't know. Besides, all it contained right now was a box of strawberries. He didn't know why they were hidden away, but his Sonic assured him they were as normal as any other strawberries.

Too bad they weren't bananas. He liked bananas.

Did he still like bananas when he looked like—_that_? While wearing a bow tie and fez? Or the other, with his hair sticking up to high heaven? He almost hoped not.

Aside from the TARDIS, the boxes, and the strawberries, the cargo bay was packed full of people. A Time Lord too, of course—or three?—but other than that, his Sonic assured him the other life forms were human. It wasn't worth cataloguing everyone now. He would, of course, there was nothing he valued higher than life and individuality, but there were too many right now.

And his eyes kept being drawn to Rose. She was looking at—at himself, at Ten—with something that simultaneously confused and irritated him, resulting in a jealousy he didn't understand. If he was going to exist at the same time as his later regenerations, he ought to at least have their memories. It seemed only fair.

Despite what they had shared, despite how he sucked the Vortex out of her, she kept looking at Ten. He didn't fancy it.

"If everyone could just shut their gorram mouth-holes for a mite second, I think all us here would be a great deal happier."

Nine, who hadn't been talking in the first place, remained silent. The command came from a tall, broad man standing a few steps up on a staircase, and he certainly looked like someone who would issue commands. He didn't fancy people who issued commands.

Slowly the bay fell silent. He noted with something like horror Eleven was the last to stop talking.

"All right, now that I've got your attention, I think it's best we get to sorting this out," the man said. "I'm the captain of this ship—her name's Serenity, I'd have you remember that—and I'd also appreciate if you remembered my own calling, that being Captain Malcolm Reynolds. You can call me Mal, at least until I decide you can't."

Nine frowned. The dialect fell uncomfortably on his ears, but since it was technically understandable, the TARDIS didn't translate. It was like nails on a chalkboard. Or a broken Dalek; that was a sound he wouldn't forget anytime soon.

"I've come to understand that there blue box—" Nine ground his teeth, and a quick glance revealed Ten and Eleven were no more pleased. "—is a time machine of some sort, and that it had a not too pleasant collision with a Vortex of some sort."

"A crack," Eleven cut in. "A crack leading to a Time Vortex."

Mal crossed his arms. "Right. And this Vortex—"

"_Time_ Vortex," Ten cut in.

Nine hated himself. In the future. It was an odd feeling.

Mal glared at Ten. "_You_ can call me Captain. Without further interruption, I'd like to continue with this talk, so as we don't end up somewhere farther out than we mean. After some preliminary examination, your box is in need of some fixin'. Luckily for you, we've got just about the best mechanic this side of the 'Verse. That'd be Kaylee; you'll recognize her by the ever-present smile."

A young woman raised her arm and waved, smiling as promised. "Hi there."

Mal scowled. "Stop interrupting. Just as soon as we're done here, she'll start working on that there box."

Nine couldn't take it anymore. "TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimension In Space. She's not a box, she's a TARDIS."

Mal inclined his head slightly. "My apologies. Ships usually need to prove their worth before I take to their name, but I suppose your presence is worth enough. In the mean while, you'll be stayin' with us, I suppose, as an alternative doesn't seem to be presentin' itself. Lucky for you we've got a few extra bunks, and y'all should fit comfortably. Proper introductions are in order, but seein' as there's a wee bit o' chaos in the air, I think we'll save that for later. In the mean while, you'll be shown around, assigned bunks, told about meals, prepped on the rules we've got—which I'd thank you to mind—and perhaps meetin' each other will come natural. If not, we can have a talk at dinner. Are there any questions before we get to proceedin'?"

"Which of me told you about the _event_?" Nine asked, spitting out the word with all the pain it caused him. "You don't seem to know much about it for someone who's been informed."

Something strange flashed across Mal's face. "We've got our own way of findin' things out, just as I'm sure you do. Anything else?"

"Have you got any fish fingers and custard?" Eleven asked.

Nine gaped at him. What on Gallifrey had he turned _into_?

Mal, however, seemed to take it in stride, and Nine found a bit of respect for the man—who he would not call Captain, not when Jack hadn't been part of the _event_.

"Our food's mostly in packages, unless we've got particularly lucky," he said. "Haven't heard of those fish fingers, but I'll keep an eye out."

Nine decided not to ask about bananas.

"These rules of ours," a man started. He looked vastly unpleasant, exactly the sort Nine chose not to associate with. "If they go breakin' these rules, who exactly gets to—remind and reinforce?"

No. Not someone Nine liked at all.

Mal pointed severely at him. "Not you. Any rule breaking will be referred to me, and I'll handle the offendin' party." He glanced at his watch. "Now, if y'all could keep your foods and guns—" Nine knew it, "—to yourselves, I've got some business to attend to. Kaylee'll give you the tour."

He stomped up the stairs, boots jarring the metal stairs, and disappeared down a corridor. Nine turned to Kaylee, who was now standing on one of the boxes.

"All right friends, follow me and we'll have you settled in no time."

**2**

Nine wondered what exactly her definition of settled was. Nine spent the next few days getting used to Serenity. She was much smaller than his TARDIS, of course, which that led to a crowdedness—not helped by all the new passengers—that took getting used to. He traveled with one companion—though Eleven seemed to have two—in the all but infinite TARDIS. Being on Serenity was an exercise in personal space.

He was bunked in one of the busier corridors. Nearly every time he left he bumped into someone. Mostly it was fairly innocuous: a preacher called Book was unfailingly polite, Mal always seemed to be in a hurry and mostly ignored him, and the pilot Wash had a joke or two ready to go.

Others were not so pleasant. The man with the guns was Jayne, and Nine considered himself lucky if he was only acknowledged with a sneer. A young girl, one of two Rivers, was sometimes quite pleasant and sometimes made him very nervous. The other River avoided him at all costs, giving him sad and longing but brief glances whenever they crossed paths. Obviously, meeting himself was awkward and uncomfortable.

Nine was largely quiet. He found quiet places, he talked—or sometimes just sat with—quiet people, and he tried to ignore everyone from his timeline. He knew only Rose, but as she knew Ten she couldn't say much of anything to him, and at any rate she seemed to be gravitating towards the doctor on board, Simon.

Nine did not like it.

He hadn't found a new companion after Rose. He missed her, missed the running, but only in the way he missed all of his companions. Clearly something had changed with Ten, but he wasn't allowed to be told due to "Spoilers," something else he didn't understand. Whatever happened between her and Ten didn't bother him. It was how she ignored him—himself, Nine, the _real_ Doctor—that got to him. Had their time together meant nothing? He was used to being alone. He didn't like it, but loneliness was built into his regeneration. Being ignored in favor of a ridiculous future version of himself and then yet _another_ doctor was just insulting. He wasn't even a real doctor.

Nine was musing this as he leaned against the glass wall of the infirmary, looking in on Simon the not-Doctor as he worked with his sister River. Nine had offered help, but he quietly and insistently turned him down. Nine had conducted a Sonic scan when he could have sworn no one was looking, but River immediately clapped her hands to her ears and started yelling about machines in her head, and Nine had quickly exited the kitchen before Simon appeared.

The scene in front of him, though. It encapsulated everything he hated about the situation. Simon the not-doctor "doctoring" his sister who had the same name as someone he was forbidden to talk to while Ten stood by, hovering over the pair in a way that Nine didn't like while Rose chatted away with both Doctor and not-doctor.

He wasn't welcome. That was it. It wasn't his ship, they weren't his companions, he wasn't in charge, he had steered himself away from helping Mal with his business once he realized what it was, and he was forbidden from talking to anyone he might know. Would know. He knew no one on Serenity, and the only person he spoke to on a regular basis was Kaylee to check in on the TARDIS. She was always bright and enthusiastic and, as promised, smiling, but she seemed to be getting nowhere. Of course, because she knew nothing about alien tech.

He had no idea how long he would be trapped on Serenity, but with every day that passed he was less and less serene. Right now, watching the infirmary, he thought a nice Dalek might do him good. A small challenge, nothing more, just a way to blow off steam.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he grabbed the wrist as he spun, eyes and reflexes sharpening. Think of a Dalek, see a Dalek.

The person who stood before him was very much not a Dalek. Aside from the fact that Daleks did not have hands, she was far more beautiful than any machine, hell-bent on destroying the universe or not. It was Inara, one of the few people Nine spent time around. She could be just as loud and silly as anyone else on board, but when they were alone, when she was quiet, she was like the hum of the TARDIS. Calming and knowing him in ways he didn't understand and, even more, didn't mind. His relationship with the TARDIS went back centuries, and while he had only just met her, it seemed natural.

Then, every time, he would remember it was her job to put people at ease, and the comfort slipped away. That was usually when he went to check in with Kaylee.

Large dark brown eyes stared into his, unfazed by his reaction. She seemed curious rather than upset or alarmed, and the Doctor could feel that her pulse hadn't quickened, either. He released her wrist, only then realizing how soft her skin was.

"You seem troubled," Inara said. "Not that the rest of your crew is at rest, but your soul is heavier than almost any I have seen."

Nine forced a grin, the one that got him out of everything. "Oh, y'know. Traveling the universe can be—" He suddenly ran out of words. What was traveling around the universe like? Gallifrey burning tore his hearts apart. Killing the Daleks weighed in his brain, always processing, always analyzing the situation to make sure he did the right thing. Meeting Rose and Jack, grinning wildly as they bounced from one place to another. Those rare days where everybody lived. The days where all the running in the world couldn't save them. The years spent alone after Rose, regenerating—if you could call it that, as he stayed in his own body and met his next two selves—due to a freak accident involving a frayed rope, a steel girder, and some very, very bad timing.

Then again, he had come out of his regeneration in the control room of the TARDIS with everyone he would meet in the next—well, estimating years was hard, but in the next two regenerations—with everything smoking, parked on a ship called Serenity. Perhaps not an accident after all, especially as this was his second girder-related regeneration.

"Would you like some tea?" Inara asked. "What I have in my shuttle is far better than the _weak-ass sauce_ that's in the pantry."

Nine raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have pegged you as someone who swears."

Inara's eyes flew open, impossibly wider. "You speak Chinese?"

Ah. That explained it. "Sure do," he replied, still with that grin. "I'd love some tea. And a banana, if you've got one around."

She raised an eyebrow, but other than that her composure was once again perfect. "There's an unfortunate but distinct lack of fresh produce onboard."

"If there's tea in your shuttle, maybe there are other secrets," Nine replied brightly, following her through the ship. The cheeriness was an automatic response and had very little to do with his emotions, though there was something oddly soothing about the simple act of being noticed.

Soothing. Calming. Synonyms for TARDIS.

And Inara, apparently.

Nine took a quiet breath. Synonym for Inara's job.

"I know about the strawberries in the compartment by the stairs," he said, attempting to make up for his silence.

Again a raise of an eyebrow, but he could see the sudden brightness and want in her eyes. "Oh? The Shepherd must have brought them. I'll have a word with Kaylee about hiding shared food."

"I'd rather it stay between the two of us," Nine replied. "After all she's doing for me, I'd hate to give away her secret."

Inara smiled, shaking her head slightly. "Very well." The door to her quarters opened with a pneumatic hiss, and she held it open for him. "After you."

Nine grinned again and nodded in appreciation. "Thank you very much. Tea and chivalry; my favorite."

**3**

Inara's quarters weren't quite to Nine's taste—he preferred wide, open spaces—but he couldn't deny their beauty. Shimmering cloth draped along the walls, dark jewel tones offset by deep red, a living room area with a small kitchen off to the side, and a curtain more opaque than the others blocking a doorway, probably to her bedroom. He had no qualms with her chosen profession, in fact was quite impressed with this timeline's respect of Companions. He briefly wondered if Jack would take on the career before deciding Jack could never settle into anything, even something that suited him so well.

"Sit anywhere you'd like," Inara said. "I'll prepare the tea."

"Thank you," he repeated, settling onto a soft, squishy, red velvet chaise. "Quite comfy, this couch."

Inara laughed softly, chiming like the bells on the cloth leading into the shuttle. "I usually use it to give massages; I would hope it comfortable."

"Ah." Nine shifted, crossing his arms again. He minded her profession only as it related to him; he didn't want to sit where her clients sat, and he didn't want her comfort because she had be trained to give it.

"You can relax," Inara said, handing him his tea. They must have some sort of instant heating device, but the tea smelled wonderful. "Nothing unsavory occurs out of the bedroom."

"I never suspected it would," he replied, sipping his tea. "I can't quite place the flavor."

"A rare herb found only in the Selina Gardens on Ariel," she said. "A gift from a client. I hope that doesn't bother you."

He was being tested. "Not at all," he said truthfully. "As long as you don't go spreading around my secrets."

Inara smiled above her teacup, looking up through thick eyelashes. Something that hadn't stirred in quite some time started to make itself known. "You have given me no secrets to share."

"Beyond the existence of my species," Nine replied. "It's quite impressive for a Time Lord to find a new taste, that's all."

Her lips quirked up. "Being impressive is my specialty."

Nine sipped his tea. He wasn't sure what to do. He thought—was almost certain—she was flirting with him, which was fine by him. It had been a while, even longer since someone other than Jack had shown interest, and rather pathetically longer since he had acted on any flirtations. He had no doubt Jack would bed him given the opportunity, but time was never in their favor.

So the stirring, while pleasant, didn't help calm him, no doubt the opposite of Inara's intentions.

"I have never met anyone who isn't impressive in one way or another," Nine said. He burst into goosebumps that vanished immediately, the sort of goosebumps that resulted from when time went strange. He shook it off. "But you are quite…"

Yes, here was the problem. He didn't remember how to flirt with someone who wasn't Jack, and Jack just did all the work, not giving him a chance to respond. He suddenly realized that the term for Inara's job was the same he used for his traveling friends. No coincidences, right? Or was everything a coincidence? Seeing all of time and space made it hard to tell. Regardless, he had been without any sort of company for a very long time. Even easy conversation wasn't so easy these days.

"Quite unique," he finished much too late.

"As are you," Inara replied. "It's not every day I meet a time traveler, let alone a Lord. Or three versions of the same one."

Nine frowned. "I don't know them, nor am I allowed to speak to them. They aren't a part of my life." He shivered. "Yet."

"Do you know what will happen when your TARDIS is repaired?" Inara asked. "Will there still be three of you?"

His expression darkened. "I don't know. Either we'll create a paradox and the universe will explode, or I'll vanish. I'm not looking forward to it."

Inara lowered her cup, setting it on the table between them. "I am sorry," she said. "I did not think—"

Nine pulled his grin back up. "Not a problem. You've coped quite well to my timeline without pondering the existential paradoxical effects the Vortex has on my existence."

Inara reached out and brushed a hand down his cheek. His expression remained as it was, while the stirring evolved into an undeniable interest. Her fingers were very soft, and it had been so long since someone had touched him so gently, with such empathy and intimacy.

"You have a great deal to bear," she said quietly. "The weight of the world rests on your shoulders, quite literally. I could help, if you like, and with more than tea."

Nine took her hand, twining their fingers together and lowering it. "If I didn't pay I'd be stealing money, and if I did I would be stealing something far more precious."

She stayed quiet, eyes once again searching his. He was not an easy man to read, but she was very good at reading. Her eyes—the interest sparked.

"You are quite something, Doctor," she said eventually.

Oh, to be called by his name.

"Nine," he corrected mournfully. "I decided with my other selves, none of us are to take the title."

Inara smiled, though she didn't hide a fleeting sadness. "And I told you nothing leaves this room."

Nine realized the sadness was for him and not the rejection.

The interest flared up into a whirling need, swirling through him like a storm. Taking the Vortex out of Rose paled in comparison, and that he barely survived without regenerating. Objectively, having the entirety of Time bursting out of him was probably more intense, but it certainly didn't feel that way at the moment.

Someone was sad for him. This beautiful, nearly ephemeral woman took his pain and turned it into her own. He was the empathetic one, he took the burdens, put the world on his shoulders, took responsibility for everything. Having another do so for him was—unimaginable. Unfathomable. Impossible.

And then he remembered it was her job.

"Thanks, but for now you might as well call me Nine," he said. "No need to make things any more confusing than they already are. One name at a time."

Inara leaned over the table again, bracing herself on Nine's leg, where he was still holding her hand. She kissed him, so gently it barely happened, but the wind roared in his ears, a tornado throwing his insides around, at least one heart stopping and possibly two. She kissed his cheek, then sat back, leaving her hand in his.

"Would you like to talk?" she asked. "Nothing more, just an open ear and a shoulder to lean on."

"That seemed like more than a shoulder," Nine said, clearing his throat. "A lot more, if you ask me."

Inara smiled coyly. "Ninth Doctor, I don't know what to do with you. Do I tell you what I've already learned about you so you know there's no reason to hide from me, or do we pretend I never said that and I quietly and gently push you into opening up?"

Nine smiled back, sadly. "You can't know me," he said. "I'm unknowable."

"Nobody is unknowable if you care to try," Inara replied.

"You barely know me," Nine said, feeling his resistance crumbling. It would be easier if her hand wasn't on his leg, if her fingers weren't in his, but he was loathe to stop. "Do you know Gallifrey? Of the Time War against the Daleks? All the years, all the—" His throat constricted.

"All the people who have left?" Inara asked softly. "I don't know those names or that war, but I do know you have been fighting, and for far too long. That's a look I see a lot, and I know it well. I see it on you more than anyone." Her free hand traced the lines worn into his face. "I don't know what happens to you later so you become who you will be, but I know now that you need someone. More and more each day you need someone, and I'm someone."

His gaze hardened, the gale within dying down. "You are," he said. "By training. You are an excellent Companion Inara, but buying an ear and shoulder—I told you. I respectfully decline your offer of companionship." He glanced around for a clock and found none. "I think it best if I left now."

"My offer has nothing to do with my job," she replied stiffly, a stubborn bluntness creeping in he hadn't seen before. "I am a good person, Nine, a decent human being, and when I see someone in pain I want to help. I imagine you know that feeling well, _Doctor_. You may stop wars, save planets, influence the flow of the universe, but I focus on what's here in front of me, and that's you. So what if he have known each other for a short while? It is my understanding that your 'companions' aren't planned; you don't get to know them before whisking them away. You just know. And I know."

The storm again, raging within, whipping rationality away in exchange for the exuberance he had almost thought left him. A smile, a real smile, graced his face without his knowledge. A tug from beneath his ribs, a voice whispering in his ear to _run_, not away but forward, to take her hand and _RUN_.

"All right," he said, and he could hear the change in his voice. "I accept." As the words fell from his lips he realized he had been wrong; he wasn't the one telling him to run, it wasn't a voice in his head. It was Inara. And so, instead of offering to show her anything in all of time and space, he asked for himself. "Where to first?"

**4**

"Take off your shirt."

Nine raised an eyebrow, smiling good-naturedly but short of his full-fledged grin. "Already? I thought that was off the table."

The coy smile again. "For now. But no, I have no intent on anything beyond platonic conversation and relaxation."

Nine quirked an eyebrow. "Relaxation?"

"Platonic relaxation," Inara repeated. "Now _stop talking you stupid egg_ and take off your shirt. You smell like a _pile of sun-baked dog poo_."

"Stupid egg?" Nine asked, shrugging off his coat. "And sun-baked dog poo? I have to admit, your world's Chinese is quite amusing."

She paused for a moment before continuing with what she was doing. "I keep forgetting you speak Chinese."

"One of many talents," he replied, still smiling and untucking his shirt. He paused. "That came out a bit more suggestive than I meant."

"You have made your intentions clear," Inara said, bringing over a large brass tub. She set an oversized pillow on the floor and added a few drops of chamomile extract to the water. "Come here."

Nine pulled off his shirt, only slightly uncomfortable. Nearly not at all. He sat on the pillow with his legs folded under himself. "I have a confession."

Inara smiled. "People often do when divested of their clothes." She took a sponge out of the tub and ran it along his chest, one shoulder to the other. Nine sighed pleasantly.

"I don't speak Chinese," he said, eyes closed. "The TARDIS translates all languages."

"I see," she replied, rewetting the sponge. Collarbones to above his slacks. He sighed again. Had anyone ever paid him this sort of attention? He thought not. "It seems she is not beyond repair, if she can still translate."

"We're not talking about that," Nine said. Over his left shoulder and down his side. "Translation is useful. Spontaneously disappearing into the Vortex is not."

"I apologize." Over his right shoulder and down his side. "On a lighter note, is Jayne's nonsense anymore comprehensible?"

Nine laughed. "Afraid not." One waist to the other, dipping down to his stomach before sliding back up. Another sigh. He could feel the tension slipping away. "You're very good at this."

"So I've been told." Very gently down one side of his face, then the other. "Can I do anything for you?"

"You're terribly clever without me interfering," Nine said.

Inara leaned forward and kissed his cheek again. The winds blew again but more gently, calmed by the bath. "Turn around."

He did, this time sitting cross-legged to ease his knees, which had popped at the change in position. "I'm old," he said by way of explanation.

Down his spine, starting just below his neck and ending just above his slacks. "I've assisted older."

Nine laughed. "I doubt it." The sponge outlined his shoulder blades, working away the knots that had built up over the past few days. The past few hundred years, really. "What's in the water other than chamomile?"

"A secret concoction of water and chamomile," Inara replied with a smile. "Anything else you're feeling is my talents."

He wasn't sure how to respond. Jack would know, but Jack wasn't here, and also Jack would probably be having sex by now.

Never mind probably. Definitely. Immediately after landing on board.

But he was not Jack and his shirt was off and he wasn't sure how to respond.

"One of many exceptional talents, I'm sure," he said.

The sponge pressed against his neck, and he let out another sigh, maybe closer to a moan.

"I do have many talents," Inara said quietly. "But we're not talking about those, are we?"

Nine could feel his mind swirling. It was a physic sensation, thinking so hard. "Would I be taking advantage if we were?"

The sponge vanished, and Inara pressed against him, hands on his shoulders, mouth next to his ear. Her dress was silk and interest exploded into full-on attention.

"Not at all," she said, nearly purring. "I don't let myself be taken advantage of. Were we to speak of such things it would be entirely my own decision." She kissed his neck, and he shivered. "Let me help. I can feel your tension radiating out; it pierces through the air, and it saddens me. If you choose to stay in your loss then so be it, but make sure you know it is a choice, and one you have control over."

"A one night stand isn't the sort of control I need," Nine said before he could think. He winced, immediately backtracking. "I mean, I don't mean any disrespect, just that—"

"I'm a Companion, so I am incapable of forming long term relationships," Inara replied sharply, pulling away. "Much like Time Lords, it would seem."

Nine spun around, letting as much of himself show as he could. No doubt not very much at all, but he tried. "My words had nothing to do with your profession," he said. "I wasn't aware you were offering more."

"I'm offering comfort," she said, resting a hand over one of his hearts. "For as long as you need, however you need."

"Why?" Nine asked.

She kissed his cheek. That was the third time she had done so. He liked it, and that was dangerous. That was why he asked why.

"Because I want to," Inara answered simply. "You do what you feel is right and I do the same."

"And when I leave?" Nine asked.

"I believe you can travel anywhere and anytime," she replied. "I see no barrier."

Nine considered. Listening to his brain was almost as comforting as listening to the TARDIS. Or Inara.

He took her other hand and put it on his chest. "I have two hearts."

"As do many of us," Inara said. "A man with one heart is a man with one eye."

One of Nine's hearts laughed at the misunderstanding while the other skipped a beat at the language. "I hate to ruin such a beautiful saying, but I've literally got two hearts." He pressed her hands entirely against his chest.

"No wonder you see so much pain," she said softly. "You see too much." She pressed her lips against his, and the tornado was back and it was beautiful. "Close your eyes. Let me hold your burdens and lift you up."

Nine reached out and brushed her shoulder. Her skin was just as soft as her hand, and she smiled at the contact. He slipped her shawl off her shoulder, revealing an expanse of arm barely covered by the gathering of fabric that was her sleeve.

"Fantastic," he said quietly, running his hand down her arm. "Absolutely fantastic."


	2. My Bloody TARDIS - The Two of hearts

A/N: Wow, the crossover section doesn't see much love, does it? Well, to the one person who reviewed, I love you :)

A few things I forgot to mention last chapter: this story is set **between Firefly and Serenity** and **between seasons five and six of Doctor Who**. Just so you know. If I do something "wrong" or such, it's just because I haven't finished the shows yet.

Also? Sherlock. Found my love last night. Expect Sherlock in the near future. And HP; I've got a Drarry brewing.

**Chapter Two**

_**My**_** Bloody TARDIS; "The two of hearts."**

**5**

Ten was thinking very hard. He had his glasses on and he was frowning. This was very strange. He didn't like how calmly his previous self—Nine, as Eleven had decided they would go by—was. He was taking it in stride. How was this something that could be taken in stride? What's more, had he really become so immature since his last regeneration that he could no longer handle new situations? And Eleven, he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Ten didn't want to be excited, either.

He wanted to be in charge.

Then again, given how his other selves looked, he was not the only one.

And, given how the man on the stairs was standing and talking, there was no chance of any Doctor being in charge. Ten was only half listening anyway, his eyes continually flitting over to Rose. She was back, Rose was back. He desperately wanted to talk to Rose. They had hugged in the TARDIS, one of the best hugs of his life, but then it truly sunk in what had happened, at least as best as they could understand the "event," and they had lost track of each other.

At least Rose was looking back at him, too. They would have time to talk later.

Right?

Maybe?

He didn't know.

The man in charge—Captain Malcolm Reynolds—kept calling it the Vortex. It was grating on his nerves. He was about to say something when another version of himself did.

"A crack," Eleven said. "A crack leading to the Time Vortex."

Ten didn't understand about the crack, but at least it was being called by its proper name.

Mal crossed his arms. "Right. And this Vortex—"

"_Time_ Vortex," Ten cut in. He couldn't help it. His head hurt.

He was answered with a glare. "_You_ can call me Captain."

Off to a brilliant start. Ten listened carefully to the rest of the speech, hoping to avoid any further mishaps. It wasn't very likely, he was full of mishaps, but ones due to not listening weren't his style. Especially when there was now a second Captain in his life. He didn't always get on with Captains, it took some adjusting, but hopefully he wouldn't be here long enough to adjust. But if this was the only way he could have Rose, maybe it wasn't so bad.

Nine was getting on with the Captain. Ten once again questioned his maturity level. They were still talking about the "event," and it was very hard not to think of Rose. He had lived without her for quite some time, first with Martha—who hadn't joined them, he thought perhaps because she hadn't been lost, though that didn't explain Eleven's presence—and then Donna, and then by himself. After the Mars incident he hadn't felt comfortable taking on a new companion, hadn't trusted himself with one. If he had destroyed a fixed point in time, it would be all too easy to destroy a single human. Instead he had traveled the uninhabited planets, visiting previously unseen landscapes: he'd watched a purple sun set over a glimmering jade ocean; he'd eaten a strange magenta fruit that tasted of Reese's peanut butter cups born from yellow trees; he'd stood on top of English moors—which had been seen, technically, but when he went they had yet to be discovered.

The Captain asked for questions.

"Have you got any fish fingers and custard?" Eleven asked.

Ten's jaw dropped. Never mind his own maturity, what in the universes was he _going_ to be? Nine looked similarly aghast.

The Captain answered in stride. He hadn't heard of fish fingers, perhaps that was why he wasn't phased.

An unpleasant man with too many guns and too much ego asked a poorly veiled threat and was immediately reprimanded.

A bright, cheery girl waved and said that they were to follow her to their bunks. Just as he was about to follow her, a small hand rested on his arm. He turned, eyebrow raised, to see an even younger girl. There was something unfamiliar—an aura of some sort—about her. It swirled around her like looking into the Vortex, only cracked and broken and tinged with something horrible—horrible and blue.

"Don't follow her," the girl said. "Follow me instead. You should bunk next to me."

Ten thought about asking questions. He thought better. "All right, lead the way."

The girl took his hand, leading him up the stairs, following the larger group before breaking off down a hallway and over to a door. She let go of his hand and pushed in, revealing a ladder and an obstructed view of a very, very small room. Ten didn't like small spaces. The TARDIS wasn't small.

"Think I'll check out the rest of the ship first," he said, putting off _descending_ into a _small space_ as long as possible.

The girl looked at him, and he felt his connection to the TARDIS tingle.

What in the name of Gallifrey…?

"The cargo bay is bigger," she said. "Same on the inside as out, but still bigger than your bunk."

Ten had to work not to be surprised. "Nah, I should learn the layout, figure out where I'm going to be living for the next—next while."

"It'll pass in the blink of an eye," she said, and Ten shivered. Time was wibbly wobbly, and so was she. "For someone of your age."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet," she replied, maintaining eye contact as she walked backwards.

"Ah, but a rose still needs a name to be addressed by," Ten said. He could still see her aura, and it was making it hard to talk. He wanted to talk to her like he talked to the TARDIS, and he had the sneaking suspicion she would understand him just as well as his ship.

"This ship is Serenity," she said. "You keep referring to it as 'the ship.' Mal won't like it, and he already doesn't like you." She turned and skipped away, disappearing down a different hallway. She poked her head back, small fingers resting on the corner of the wall. "You already have a River. What if a rose by two names doesn't smell sweet at all?" Then she disappeared, this time not coming back.

Ten stared at where she had been. This—she—the TARDIS—Time Vortex—his head hurt, even with his glasses. He rubbed his temples. He wanted the console back, where he could press buttons and flick switches and listen to her hum until he felt better before walking out the door into the unknown.

Then again, he didn't know Serenity. She was an unknown.

He started walking, doing just as he said he would and exploring his new, hopefully quite temporary, home. He didn't take in any of his surroundings, his mind still wrapped around the girl probably named River. Eleven had mentioned a crack, and her aura was cracked. Coincidence? It was so hard to tell.

Ten gathered himself. The "event" required his complete attention.

**6**

Ten was antsy. Day Three aboard Serenity, aboard a tiny ship that couldn't hold a candle to his TARDIS. _His _TARDIS. He might not be allowed to go by his name, but he could call her his. At least in his thoughts. He had tried keeping tally marks on the wall of his extremely tiny bunk, but the first line had produced the sort of shiver that came with wibbly wobbly time, and he quickly erased it.

He and Rose had caught up late on Day One. She had been in the alternate universe with his alternate self—a fourth Doctor, not confusing at all—and suddenly she had started glowing, the alternate Ten had started yelling about Bad Wolf, she had felt a strange tugging behind her bellybutton, and then she was in the TARDIS.

Ten's experience had been a bit more strange. He told her about his companions after her and, incredibly uncomfortably, about the Mars incident. She thought she understood, reminding him of when she absorbed the Time Vortex, but she had done it to save lives, and it had resulted in an immortal, not a suicide. He didn't make the comparison, though; it was hard enough to talk about as it was. He quickly moved on to when the Ood had saved his regeneration after he had saved Wilf's life. He told her about the time before he had regenerated, courtesy of an extraordinarily odd incident with a dragon, a species he hadn't known actually existed. A mythic beast, regenerating into his same body and crashing down onto the floor of the TARDIS with his past and future selves, along with both familiar and unknown others.

Being with Rose was strange. She wasn't in love with him, exactly, but an alternate version of himself. He had slowly and painfully moved on, though to no one in particular. Now, here on Serenity, she couldn't talk to Nine in case she let something slip, or Eleven in case _he_ let something slip, so they did spend time together, but it was awkward. She was also gravitating towards a—fifth, was it?—doctor named Simon, and Ten respectfully kept his distance from whatever was blooming between them.

When he wasn't with Rose he split his time between debating philosophy with Book, being yelled at by Donna for erasing her memory that was now back, checking in on his TARDIS and, by necessity, becoming friends with Kaylee, avoiding his past and future selves, as well as his future companions and River Song, though she was mysteriously absent much of the time, and keeping an eye out for the other River, who also seemed to have vanished.

"—more inclined to forgive you if you _paid attention to me_."

Ten snapped to attention, focusing his attention on Donna. "Sorry, what?"

She narrowed his eyes. "You are an infuriating, insufferable excuse for a Space Man. Look at all these other Space Men! I've been staying away from your other selves as promised—and don't get me started on that—but the crew here, _they're_ Space Men and they respect me."

"Hey! I respect you!" Ten exclaimed, feet dropping from a nearby chair and settling on the floor so he could sit up properly. "Who said I didn't? And who said my mind doesn't wander? I'm a wandering sort of man. I wander."

Donna groaned. "You've never listened to me, not from the beginning. It was my wedding day, y'know. You kidnapped me in the middle of my wedding day."

Ten closed his eyes. "I know, Donna. You looked lovely. Which I told you at the time."

"_My wedding day_," Donna repeated.

"We saved Earth!" Ten exclaimed. "I didn't kidnap you, my TARDIS did! And your fiancée was using you to help the Racnoss do the very opposite!"

"Oh, that's real classy," Donna said, rolling her eyes. "Bring up my evil, cheating fiancée. I _did_ look lovely, thank you very much, and I'll never know how he chose a bloody spider alien over me and my _lovely_ dress."

"One for the ages," he replied. "Would you like to pop in on Agatha Christie again? See if she can solve the mystery?"

"It wouldn't do any good," Donna said angrily. "Seeing as you erased her mind. That sounds familiar, mind erasing? Why would that be? Oh, I know. _Because you erased my bloody mind_."

"To save your life!" Ten shouted. "I save Earth and I save your life and you blame me!"

"Because it's your fault!" Donna yelled back. She stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. "I'm leaving to spend my time with people who appreciate me. I almost wish you had kept my mind erased so I didn't have to deal with your bollocks anymore."

She left, then stuck her head out. "You're still _my_ Space Man," she said firmly. "Not like that, don't give me that look. I'm just saying." She stomped away, leaving Ten a little calmer. Arguing with her was oddly relaxing.

Then River, Serenity's River, walked in, and any relaxation was gone.

"Please don't fight," she said, staying by the door. "I hate fighting. Are you done now?"

"We fight good," Ten replied, then winced at what was not a sentence at all. Her aura was shining like the Time Vortex, golden and beautiful. "Fighting, it's good for us. It's how we talk. We're not actually mad at each other."

River frowned. "Yelling. It's too loud. You make me hide."

"I'm sorry," Ten said genuinely, feeling guiltier about that than anything he had ever done to Donna.

River considered, and then her face smoothed out. "Fine. But don't do it again."

"Pinky swear," he said, again cursing himself for the bizarre speech patterns. It was the light around her, it was captivating. Like home.

"You can see me," she said after a few moments. "Almost as much as Simon."

"Are you a time event?" Ten asked, then winced. "I'm so sorry, you have no idea what that—"

"You could say that," River interrupted. "Not how you measure time, I don't think, but my brain, it's—"

Her aura slowly turned from gold to blue. A foreboding blue.

"I measure time in a lot of ways," he replied. "You'd be surprised."

"I doubt it," she said. Fully blue now, and not a good blue.

"Are you all right?" Ten asked.

Her eyes unfocused and she started muttering under her breath, words he couldn't understand.

"River?" Ten asked quietly, getting up and going to her. "River, what's happening?"

Her hands settled over her ears. "Two by two, hands of blue."

Ten took off his glasses, tucking them into his pocket. He tried to make eye contact but her eyes kept darting away. "Tell me. I can help."

"The machines," she said. "They went into my brain, two by two, hands of blue, hands in my brain, rewiring, changing, I can't, they were in my _brain, two at a time rewiring and changing and now __**machines, machines everywhere, screaming at me, I can hear everything, hear so much, hear your hearts beating TWO OF HEARTS, TWO BY TWO, HANDS OF BLUE**_—"

Ten folded his fingers around her wrists and she shrieked, screaming like nothing he'd ever heard. He jumped back, and a second later Simon ran into the room.

"River," Simon said desperately, putting his hands exactly where Ten's had been. She screamed again but he didn't let go. "What happened?" He looked over his shoulder at Ten, eyes blazing. "Did he do something to you?"

"No, I—"

"Two of hearts," she whispered.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "Come on, I'm taking you to the infirmary." He started to lead her out of the room and she screamed again. The hair on the back of Ten's neck stood up, goosebumps cascading down his arms. Wibbly wobbly again? Almost, not quite.

"The two of hearts has to come," River said firmly. If it weren't for her eyes, he would have thought she was completely fine. "Good two, good hearts, I can see things through his hearts, there's so much…"

Simon gave Ten an exasperated glare. "Fine. Hurry up."

**7**

River was all but catatonic when they arrived at the infirmary. Simon carefully laid her on the bed while Ten hovered. River was still talking under her breath. Simon removed an entire drawer from one of the cabinets, put it on a stainless steel tray and rolled it over to River. He leaned over, resting a hand on her shoulder.

"River, can you hear me?"

"Two by two, hands of blue," she whispered. "The two of hearts. It made them come back, made the machines scream, but now…"

Simon looked at Ten again, who was acutely aware of being judged.

"Do you want him to leave?" Simon asked softly. "Is he making it worse?"

River shook her head violently. "When purging doesn't start with nothing it starts with everything. The influx of eyes see so strongly cause the influx of screaming hands of blue before they fade away to dying stars."

Ten's hearts raced. He thought he understood her and was absolutely certain he didn't. The blue was cracking with gold breaking apart and taking over.

"I don't understand," Simon said, sounding hopeless. "I'm going to give you a shot, okay? You've taken them before, there's—"

"No," River interrupted. She looked behind them both. "There are two hearts and I don't need a shot."

Simon frowned. "I don't understand."

"The influx of eyes was nimiety and everything was limpid and flooding," she said. "The two of hearts caused a rift—" Ten shuddered at the word, at the wibbly wobbly, "—of black holes inhaling but I culled and winkled out and now I'm back. The doctor sucked the venom from the wound like toxin from a snake."

"I didn't do anything," Simon said helplessly.

River smiled, lighting up the room. "Not you, silly. The Doctor. The one in this room. He doesn't like to be called Ten but that's what you know him as." She giggled. "A rose by two names smells like a corpsified latrine gone south."

Simon looked miserably confused undercut with anger at not being the one to help her. "I—okay, if you say so. Find me if…" He rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. He brushed her hair back and kissed her forehead. "I love you, _little sister_."

"And you worry too much, _big brother_," River replied. She hopped off the table, aura fully golden. She kissed the tip of Simon's nose. "Never fear, the two of hearts is here." She took Ten's hand. "Let's run through space and time."

Her hand was small and fragile. "My TARDIS isn't working."

River tapped his forehead. "It's all in the mind." She turned back to her brother. "Oh, and Simon?"

"Yes, River?"

"Ten's hair has gone flat," she said. "Do you have anything for it?"

Both men stared at her.

"I'm a doctor, not a barber," Simon replied.

"It has not," Ten said, running his hands through it.

River shrugged. "It has." She led Ten out of the infirmary without another word, and he gave Simon an apologetic glance over his shoulder. Simon shrugged, sighing heavily.

"Go. If she does find a way to move through time and space, write a note before you leave."

"If I can time travel I can come back before I'm gone," River said snootily. "You won't even see me leave before I'm back." She squeezed Ten's hand. "Come on. You can tell me your name and I'll call you that instead of Ten or Doctor and everyone will be happy."

Ten tripped as she led him away. "I can't. Nobody knows my name."

"River does," River said in a singsong voice. "I've heard her thinking it when she looks at the all of you. It's clouded, I can't see it, but she knows."

Ten frowned. "I don't know how she knows," he said. "It hasn't happened yet."

River frowned as well. "I don't like time travel," she stated. "I could probably do it if I tried, but I don't want to. One moment is hard enough on its own. Besides, you end up with three selves and things that have already happened that haven't happened yet. It's too confusing." Her hand tightened around his. "I tried to hide from you, all of you and River and Amy and Rory, the ones with the Time, but I kept looking for you."

"I, ah, can't know about Amy and Rory," Ten said, disguising the—excitement?—blooming in him that she was also looking for him. "I haven't met them yet."

She kicked out at the wall, frown deepening. "I told you, I don't like it. I want to talk about something else."

"Well," Ten said slowly, drawing the word out. "I could tell you about the planet I'm from."

They both froze. Where the hell had that come from? He never volunteered information about Gallifrey, _never_. What—why on earth—no. Just—just no.

"No," River said mechanically. "The fire rained down and burned the silver leaves to the ground, scorching the red grass, two suns falling from the sky. Machines came and—" Her voice cracked, and she looked up at Ten with a beautiful, carefree smile. "It was nice of you to offer." She started walking again, practically dragging him along with her.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask how you know," he said.

"Come on, let's sit on the steps," River replied, bypassing the question entirely. "You can watch Kaylee work."

"I don't think she knows much about alien technology," Ten said despondently.

"She knows about everything," River replied.

They emerged onto the metal stairs leading down to the cargo bay and sat, legs dangling beneath the railing. The door to his TARDIS was open and he could vaguely hear noises from inside, but only human-made sounds, nothing to indicate she was recovering. He sighed. River took his hand again. She was stronger this time, silently offering comfort.

"I'm broken too," she said. "It's okay. Being broken's not that bad."

Ten's lips turned up in a small smile. "I don't think I could live if she doesn't get fixed." He paused. "Then again, I'm not sure if I'll live if she does. I'm supposed to have regenerated into Eleven. By all rights I shouldn't exist."

"But you do," River replied. "That's got to count for something."

"I suppose," he said dejectedly. "I don't want to leave."

"Then don't," River said simply, squeezing his hand again.

"I don't want to stay so badly that I'd risk creating a paradox and destroying the universe," Ten replied. "Which I don't know how to do in the first place." A brief pause. "Probably by pushing a button."

"Look," she said, pointing at Kaylee, who was coming out of the TARDIS, covered in grime. "Ask if she's made progress."

"I imagine she's sick of hearing me ask," he replied. "All of me, we all ask a lot."

Kaylee started, looking up at them. "Hey there," she called. "Didn't know I had friends close by."

"We didn't mean to bother," Ten said, starting to get up but being held in place by River's hand. "I'm trying to leave, really."

Kaylee laughed. "Friends are shiny! If I didn't want you around, you'd know it."

River elbowed Ten. "Ask," she whispered. "She's in a good mood, so ask."

"We weren't here to ask about progress," Ten said definitively. "River said she liked the stairs, and, well, we're on the stairs."

"Oh, that's all right," Kaylee replied, wiping her hands on her jeans. "I get asked often enough. She's progressing, though a mite slower than I'd like. All those bits and pieces; as soon as I think I've fixed something, something else breaks."

Ten fidgeted. "I'm so sorry. I'd help, the three of me would help."

"And I said no," she replied firmly. "Y'all'd just be gettin' in the way and gumming up the works. 'Sides, I reckon I know more about mechanics than all of you. Have you seen Serenity's engine?" The last was said with an unapologetic pride.

"Only while wandering," Ten said.

"He's a wandering man," River added. "I heard him say so."

"_Yes_, I reckon so," Kaylee mused. "Can't imagine having a time machine and not wanderin'." A far away look made Ten wince. He'd been waiting for someone to ask to come along as a companion and he hadn't been looking forward to it. Not that he'd necessarily say no, but the logistics, and talking to the Captain, and whether he'd even exist or not… "Anyway, I can hold my own. An engine's an engine, and engines take a likin' to me." She smiled, and stroked the outside of the TARDIS. "And, as it happens, I've takin' a likin' to this one. Feelin's mutual, all the better for a fast recovery. But," she added, looking around her. "I could never leave Serenity. The poor thing needs all the help she can get."

Ten breathed a sigh of relief. Fast recovery and no potential companionship. Exactly what he wanted to hear.

"See?" River whispered, lips nearly brushing his ear. He shivered as goosebumps once again overtook him. "All you had to do was ask."

**8**

A week later, Day Ten, and Ten's outlook had changed drastically. He spent almost all of his time with River, who was like a warm bath. Eventually he asked if she could see light around him, and she had laughed and said, "Of course, silly. You're blue like your Time. What color am I?" He said she was gold, except when she turned blue. She started to close off at that so he elaborated, telling her how she mirrored the Time Vortex, and how the blue had cracked open with gold. "It's like a shell," she had said. "It's an exoskeleton. Hands of blue, closing in, skeletal around me, holding me—"

"Shh," Ten interrupted softly, taking one of her hands, so small in his. "My hands are human colored, yeah? Sort of a peachy, pinky tan."

River stroked his palm. "Yes. Encased in Time blue. She put his hand on her chest, and his hearts kicked up. "One of hearts." Then she had put both of her hands on his chest. "Two of hearts." She smiled dreamily. "Pounding around. Careful, you'll burst through."

He hadn't know what he'd burst through, but that seemed about right.

Ten still argued with Donna—always causing River to vanish no matter how he tried to explain he and Donna loved each other and it was how they expressed their affection—and he still talked to Rose, but that often led to spending time with Simon and River as well, and that felt like double dating in a very uncomfortable way.

The rest of the people from his timeline were off limits, he avoided the less savory work Serenity pulled in—which was most of it—and tried to keep up with what Kaylee was doing without overwhelming her. He was one of three, he reminded himself, and that meant three times the nagging.

But River. Mostly River. She was always there even when she wasn't, another mind in his, a golden aura reaching out invisibly. It was impossible not to be with her even when he wasn't _with_ her.

This was especially problematic in bed. Hers was next to his, and the wall between them glowed golden. It wasn't so bright that it kept him up, that wasn't what caused his sudden insomnia. It was like sleeping in the TARDIS console room, which he had never been able to do. Too much energy occupying too much of his mind posing puzzles he couldn't figure out even if he had a full night's sleep, which he hadn't in quite a while.

And, in a way he didn't quite understand, there was a sort of—he refused to think of it as sexuality or sexual tension. She was too young. He didn't know exactly how old she _was_, it seemed entirely possible there was more than one answer to that, or at least a very complicated one, but still, _too young_.

Even if Rose had been nineteen. That wasn't the point.

It was three in the morning when there was a knock on his door. Glowing circles burned brightly before fading away.

"Come in," he called.

River came down and sat on the edge of his bed. "I can't sleep either."

"I'm sorry," Ten replied, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Want to go for a walk?"

The concept was kind of a joke, given how small Serenity was. But that's what River called it, and Ten hadn't pushed it.

"No," she said, climbing over his legs and leaning against the wall, her legs draped over his. "I just wanted to be with you."

"All right, okay, well let's see." He sat up, keeping his legs beneath River's. "Do you want to talk?"

"No," she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

He rubbed his eyes. "All right. What do you want?"

"I told you," River said, a little irritably. "I want to be with you."

Ten's stomach flipped. "Well, want to sleep?"

River groaned in frustration. "Stop asking questions. I'll tell you if I need something."

He collapsed down, sliding under the covers again. "I'll just try to sleep then, shall I?"

She shrugged. "If you want."

He didn't. At all. But she didn't seem amenable to anything else, and River did nothing that she didn't want to do. He lay on his back using his arms as a pillow, eyes closed, trying to figure out how a young girl could have so much control over his life. He had always been one to fall quickly, whether romantically or friend-wise, but…River was…different, or…

River scooted up so she was sitting by his head, legs curled beneath herself, and grabbed something off the bedside table. Ten was too surprised—surprised, not intoxicated—by her sudden presence to respond.

She frowned. "I don't understand."

Ten looked at what she was holding, forcing himself to focus, and one of his hearts stopped. "That's psychic paper," he said carefully. It shows whatever the holder wants to be shown. Handy for identification and getting in places you shouldn't be allowed in."

"But…" She trailed off, and held the paper out to him, still holding it. "I can't read this. How can I want to see something I can't read?"

His other heart stopped. "That—that's Gallifreyan," he said. "It's the language of the planet I'm from. What were you thinking about?"

"You," she said. "What does it say?"

"It's, ah." Ten cleared his throat, willing his hearts back into motion. "Well. My name."

River ran her fingers over the paper. "I can't read it," she said. "Why can't I read it?"

"I don't imagine you speak Gallifreyan," he said, still in shock. "I do. And, ah, the TARDIS. The Master, I suppose, and the—"

"I speak sixty-seven languages," she interrupted. "Most that don't exist anymore, and a handful I made up." Her fingers never stopped moving, tracing the circular patterns. "And I can't read this."

Ten tried to take the paper back but she had a surprisingly strong hold on it and wasn't letting go. "I can't tell you."

Her frown deepened. "Why? Teach me."

"I can't," he said. "That's not—you're not, I can't."

River slammed her hand down. "I can too," she exclaimed. "I can do anything. I'll just figure it out myself then."

Ten ripped the paper away from her, snapping the holder shut and sticking it his pocket. Probably not wise, it was the pocket of his pajamas, and no doubt it was now permanently misplaced. "I'm sorry. You can't know."

"Why?" River demanded. "I remember the symbols. I'll write them down myself and figure it out from there."

"Please don't," he replied quietly. "My name is—special. On my planet, in my world, my name is special."

"I understand that," she snapped. "Neither Ten nor Doctor are—" She cut herself off. "Doctor is good. But I can't call you that, because you won't let yourself. Eleven's the oldest but looks the youngest, Nine's older but regresses, and that leaves you to—" She smiled. "To be a Doctor."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he said and no, it wasn't a figure of speech, he was afraid. A good afraid, the sort that made his stomach flip and his hearts go faster. He chased that kind of afraid. He loved it.

River leaned down and pressed her lips against his. A shock of energy exploded, golden sparks cascading through the room. Ten suspected his blue was doing the same. He had never been kissed like this, so simply and _so _powerfully. Never mind the "event," this would tear the universe apart. She stroked his cheek, slowly, and pulled away.

"I think I'll stay here tonight," River said, climbing beneath the blankets. The bed was tiny, there was barely enough room for Ten without sharing. "The way of the path is always clearest to those who rush ahead with closed eyes."

"That's not what most people say," Ten replied, wrapping an arm around her, telling himself it was due to space constraints and knowing better. "Look before you leap and all."

"Not you," she said, snuggling against him, curling against his chest and looping a leg over his. "You push buttons."

"It was only the one," he said uncomfortably, Wash's angry words still ricocheting around his mind, as well as the bemused look from Amy he had to forget seeing as he didn't know her. "And I haven't done it again."

"Yes you will," River said assuredly. "It's okay. I like button pushers. They're interesting. I only like interesting people."

"Well," Ten said. "As it happens, I also like interesting people."

"'Perfectly suited,' said the princess to the pauper," River said. "'Couldn't be worse,' said the king to the princess. 'I can't believe how our luck has turned,' said the pauper's mother to her son. And, of course: 'It's bigger on the inside,' said the pauper to the princess. 'Come away with me. I can show you anything in the universe, past or present, any planet you'd like. Where would you have me take you? Oh, and by the way—_run!_'"


	3. Gorram Gunshot Wound - Have we got an

**A/N: **There was definitely something important to say. Really. I've just been up for forty-two hours and I have no idea what it was.

Well.

Hello, readers! Have a good time :]

**Chapter Three**

**Gorram Gunshot Wounds; "Have we got an understandin'?"**

**9**

The Doctor watched the two people in front of him, anxiously tugging on his bow tie. Amy was perched on the railing of the console and Rory was sitting on the floor against the far wall. They were quite insistent that everything was fine and amicable, with no fighting or arguing or anything of the sort. Which, to be fair, there wasn't, because they wouldn't speak or look at each other.

"So!" the Doctor said brightly, clapping his hands together. Amy started, nearly falling off the railing, and Rory looked up miserably. "Where shall we go today? The Emeralade Forests of Casia? The Mighty Sea of Todas? Maybe the unexplored Pureen Fields of Drilian!"

"Shut up," Amy said dully, which was her default answer these days.

The Doctor kept his good cheer façade up as he practically skipped over to the console. "Fine, I'll just pick then. Forests of Casia, here we come!"

"I don't know why you bother asking," Rory said as the TARDIS whirled into life. "You know we haven't heard of any of those places."

"And now you have," the Doctor replied cheerfully. "We'll make a three-way stop of it, show them all off, and then you'll know."

"Oh joy," Amy said sarcastically. "Pit stops at planets we'll never remember to see places nobody in their right mind has heard of. Might as well cram three into a day, it doesn't make it any less confusing."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that," the Doctor replied. "You'll love the—the, hmm."

"Hmm?" Rory echoed. "What's 'hmm'? Doesn't sound good."

"What would you know about what sounds good and what doesn't?" Amy shot back.

"Well, no, it's not exactly not good," the Doctor said. "It's just, um, a bit—bad."

"A bit?" Amy asked. "What do you mean, a bit? We're in a bloody space ship, I wouldn't think things can be a bit bad. Either they're fine, which they clearly aren't—" She glared at Rory, "—or the universe is collapsing and we're stuck in the middle of it."

"Yeah," the Doctor said slowly. "Yes, you might want to hold on. Now. Tightly. _Right now_."

The TARDIS flipped over, slamming around, the sounds of crashing and breaking ringing throughout. The lights went out and Amy let out a low moan; she had never fully recovered from the Angels, and don't blink had no meaning in a pitch black room. Then other sounds, people sounds—literally, the sounds of people falling and slamming and crashing, but there should only have been three of them, and the Doctor was firmly anchored on the console, Amy had the railing, and Rory couldn't make that much noise by himself.

"Oi! What the—_oof_."

"—about Bad Wolf?"

"—is new, where's my—"

"—again, really? A bloody girder, again?"

"—awfully dark for regen—hey! Stop kicking!"

"I wouldn't be kicking if—wait, I know—"

"Who said Bad Wolf?"

"Everybody shut up!" the Doctor yelled. He had recognized each voice, and quite frankly he was terrified. "All right. The TARDIS has stopped moving, so if anyone is still being kicked, it's intentional." No one replied. Good. "Right. We've obviously just experienced a Space-Time Event, probably in the Vortex. The Vortex is very—black. It's not in here, you don't have to worry, the lighting's just been shorted out. I'll fix that in a minute. First, I need you to promise that you won't. Freak. Out."

A long pause.

"Sweetie, is that you?"

The Doctor ran a hand through his hair. "Yes. And, from what I heard, two other me's. So. Don't. Freak. Out."

He was impressed by the silence that followed. He had expected yelling and clamoring, other recognized voices, but either there had been too much clamoring for recognizing, or he wasn't giving himself and his companions enough credit. He took out his Sonic, waved it around the console, and suddenly the room was so bright it hurt.

Time Vortex darkness would do that.

"Before anyone says anything," the Doctor said, blinking in the light. "I know all of you, but you only know some of me. So, in order to avoid disrupting the Time Vortex any further, you can't talk to anyone you don't recognize. And, uh—Nine, don't ask Rose anything about after you—well, clearly you haven't regenerated, so I'm not sure, but—"

"What he's trying to say," River Song interrupted, "is to be very careful about spoilers."

"Yes, that."

More quiet as eyes adjusted to the light. The Doctor—he'd have to think of another name now that there were three of him—was having trouble understanding how everyone was so quiet when he was about ready to explode with questions. Or maybe he just talked too much these days.

Though he wasn't talking either. Maybe it was the shock.

His ninth and tenth regenerations—they could go by that, their regenerations—Rose, Donna, Amy, Rory, and River all in one place. It was shocking.

"Okay," Eleven said. "Okay, just—calm down."

"Nobody's said anything," Amy replied, and that made sense, she only knew River, everyone else was a stranger. "That's pretty calm, don't you think?"

"You and Rory don't talk and you're not calm," Eleven shot back. "See what happens when you're not calm? I get irritable, and if we're going to get through this, whatever this is, I can't be irritable, I've got to _think_, and—No! River! Don't open the door!"

River looked over her shoulder with her patented smirk. "Sorry, Sweetie. Someone's got to do it."

"Don't you think we ought to—I don't know—do? Something? First?" Eleven stammered. "We've just experienced a major Space-Time Event, we should—"

"I'm with River," Amy interrupted, jumping up, and following her to the door. "We've got to do _something_. Since when are you one for standing still? You're not now, you're bouncing on the balls of your feet. So shut up and let's go."

River and Amy left. Rose and Ten exchanged a very tight hug before breaking apart. She looked strained—Ten was no longer her Doctor, the alternate Doctor was. That couldn't have been easy for either of them. She slipped out the door, oozing awkwardness. Donna shot Eleven a distrustful look, a furious one at Ten—she did remember having her mind erased, then, and wasn't pleased, but who would be?—and walked out the door. Rory looked at the three versions of the Doctor, shook his head, and left.

"We might as well go on," Ten said uncomfortably.

"I'd be interested in an explanation," Nine replied. "You two are me? Have I got that straight?"

"Yeah, that's about all I know," Eleven said. "I propose—"

"Hang on," Ten interrupted. "If you're next, after me, then you were in the TARDIS when this happened. What, exactly, did happen?"

"Haven't the slightest clue," Eleven replied. "What I was saying—"

"How do I know you're me?" Nine asked, crossing his arms. "It could be a trick. You two, the rest of them, all this could be a trap, or just the musings of someone bored and very, very clever."

Eleven spoke their name.

Ten said their mother's name.

Nine added their father's.

"Right," Eleven said. "Now that we've established we are who we say we are—that is, the same person—we have to talk about names. That's what I was trying to say before you interrupted. I'm quite annoying, apparently. I propose regenerations. Nine, Ten, and Eleven. Fair enough?"

"Why should we take orders from you?" Ten asked. "While you're wearing _that_?"

Eleven adjusted his hat. "It's a fez. I—you, um—we. We wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool."

"As are bow ties?" Nine asked, nodding at his tie.

"Absolutely," Eleven said. "Are we ready?" The three Doctors looked at each other in silence. "Right. Off we go, then! Geronimo and all."

"Geronimo," Nine muttered under his breath. "Fantastic."

Ten quirked a smile at him. "Ought to be allons-y."

Eleven turned around, halfway out the door. "Ah, ah, ah. Spoilers."

"So no talking at all," Ten said, raising his eyebrows.

"Obviously not," Nine replied. "We could throw the entire universe out of whack. A few others too, if we tried hard enough."

"And given this Space-Time Event, we're already pushing our luck," Eleven finished. "Come on, I want to have a look around, and if I know you at all—which I do, I was you—you're just as eager." For the first time he realized that Amy was right, he was in fact bouncing. "Fantastic, allons-y, and geronimo all at once! Very cool!" He left, not looking to see whether or not his past selves were following. He knew himself, he knew they were. He felt badly for Nine, who hardly knew anything, but the important part was that he—Eleven—didn't need to keep track of himself because he knew what he would do.

He might want to tell someone in charge about buttons, in case Ten found one. He always did.

They were in a cargo bay of a space ship. An overcrowded cargo bay, filled with its own crew as well as himselves and his companions. Chaos came to mind.

A man walked up a little ways onto a metal staircase.

"If everyone could just shut their gorram mouth-holes for a mite second, I think all us here would be a great deal happier."

River appeared at Eleven's side.

"Quite something, don't you think?"

"Yes, well, that's sort of the point, isn't it?" Eleven replied. "Of Space-Time Events? They're always quite…something…" He trailed off as he realized he was the last one talking.

He had to interrupt later, though, when Captain Mal needed to know about the crack.

And again, asking about fish fingers and custard.

Then they were all led away, and Eleven was left with the lingering impression that he enjoyed someone else being in command. Just for a bit, until the TARDIS—which was now smoking—was been repaired. A weight off his shoulders. Sort of scary, but interesting.

And, after all, it was Captain Mal's ship. Eleven didn't believe in commandeering ships. It wasn't sporting.

**10**

Eleven spent the first day dealing with the fallout from the Space-Time Event. He introduced his companions to each other, along with instructions not to talk about any of himselves, which seemed harmless. Nine was instructed to avoid everyone, though it was more of a careful explaining without giving anything away. One of the very, very few perks of having his old selves around—they understood each other. He looked lonelier than usual but hid it well behind his trademark grin. Eleven had quickly left Nine's bunk, feeling awful about it. Ten already knew what to do from his encounter with River Song. Then Eleven had to explain the situation to the crew of Serenity, who were remarkably unfazed.

Then he had slept. A lot. Being part of a Space-Time Event was exhausting, especially when explaining it was his job. He'd skipped breakfast and lunch, treated himself to what counted as a shower on Serenity, sneaking the tub of water into his bunk while no one was looking. It wasn't quite as relaxing as he had pictured.

It was only after that it occurred to him that he didn't have a change of clothes, that all of his belongings were in the TARDIS. He had snagged a towel from the latrine, but hadn't thought to bring clothes. He dried his hair as best he could, though he suspected it was still wet and was now sticking up in strange ways he could have avoided, wrapped the towel around his waist, and started down to the cargo bay.

He was sidetracked by the kitchen. His stomach reminded him quite forcefully that he hadn't eaten in quite a while, and food became much more important than clothing.

Going through the cupboards was a depressing experience. There were energy bars. A different flavor of energy bars. And packets. Muttering under his breath about fish fingers, he grabbed a packet at random, not paying attention, dumped the powder into a bowl, and put it in what wasn't exactly a microwave. It seemed to know what to do, and a few minutes later the not-quite-a-microwave dinged. His search for a spoon ended another few minutes later, and he took a huge bite.

"Oh good Gallifrey!" he exclaimed, spitting out the concoction into the sink. "What is this?"

"Judging from the smell, I'd say you have yourself dehydrated ground beef cook with no water and no seasonin's. You might want to try addin' some spice, or puttin' it on something. A bun, or somethin' of the like."

Eleven spun around, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other. Mal was leaning in the doorway looking bemused.

"I'm not—" Eleven looked down at the bowl. "This is disgusting."

"If you'd checked the label, y' might not be in this here predicament," Mal replied. "But we don't waste foodstuffs here, so I'm afraid you'll just have to hoof it up and get it over with."

Eleven glanced at the food again. "Can I, ah—spice?"

"We happen to be just about plum out _now_," Mal said. "We're a mite low on coin, too. Go on, _hurry up_, the faster you choke it down the sooner it'll be over."

Eleven winced. "Buns?"

"Once it's been dehydrated there's not much that can be done to be fixin' it," Mal replied. "If y'all really want one I'll show you the way, but it'll just make it even dryer."

Eleven took a small bite, hoping it wasn't as bad as he remembered. "It's rubbish," he declared.

Mal's face hardened. "I won't have you insultin' my ship, or what provisions we manage to scrape by on. If you're so much fancier than the rest of us, go on and find someone else who won't turn down a meal just cause some don't bother to suss out the proper way of doin' things. I don't take kindly to tetchiness round here."

There was something about his tone, about the way he looked disappointed in him, that made Eleven shrink. "Right. I'll just finish this up, then."

Mal nodded. "Aye, that'd be right smart."

Eleven pushed himself up onto the counter, swinging his legs as he forced down the dry, tasteless and charred, crumbly meat-stuff. He couldn't help grimacing, occasionally choking as his mouth dried out but making himself finish. He was used to unlimited food, but of course it made sense that a small, broke ship would need to ration its food out.

But Amy was the only one who could get away with yelling at him.

…on the other hand, there was—he was just so used to being in charge, in this regeneration and his others, and even something as simple as being told not to throw out perfectly good food—okay, not good, but nutritionally sound—just because he didn't like it.

Except beans. Beans were evil.

Mal poured a differently colored packet into a pan—with water—and slowly stirred it. A delicious small wafted over, and Eleven whimpered quietly. Mal glanced at him, once again bemused.

"For bein' the oldest of the Doctor's, you're quite the _young one_."

"I'm not young, I'm nine hundred and seven," he huffed.

Mal smiled slightly. "Young ain't got a thing to do with age. Not surprised you speak Chinese if you're really as old as you say."

The TARDIS was still translating. A good sign.

"Yup, well, there's a lot to do in nine hundred years," Eleven said. Despite explaining who the people from his timeline were, he was reluctant to share the inner workings of the TARDIS. He tilted the bowl and poured the rest of the ground beef into his mouth. He couldn't help a noise of disgust, and he practically threw the dishes into the sink. "Don't you dare lecture me about doing my dishes, I'm going to do them, I know my manners, I just—god, I just need to be away from the smell for a minute."

Mal shook his head. "Tetchy _young one_. You've got to get yourself calmed down. And maybe some proper clothes. Not that you ain't enjoyable like that, but—" He abruptly cut himself off. "You most likely don't want to live in a towel for the rest of your stay."

Eleven flushed and adjusted his towel. "I think—yes, I think I'll go get clothing now. After I do the dishes. Dishes, then clothes. Yes." He slipped off the counter, minding his towel, quickly washed out his bowl and spoon, and set them in the dish drainer. "So. Yes. Clothes."

"Probably a shiny thought," Mal agreed. He was sitting at the table, leaning back as he ate his good-smelling food. "You're all flushed, makes it seem like somethin' might be goin' on beneath that towel of yours."

Both men stared at each other. Mal's chair came down with a thump, clearly surprised by himself. Eleven was acutely aware that it wasn't just his face that was flushed but his entire body burning red.

"Clothes," Eleven stated.

"Yeah, real shiny," Mal said quickly.

Eleven tightened his towel. He hated flirting. His past regenerations hadn't minded, especially when Jack Harkness was around, but Eleven hadn't met Jack, and he was entirely inexperienced. In this body. In this regeneration.

He tried to draw on his past lives while channeling Jack, who he hadn't met.

"So, er, yes, I, um, clothes," Eleven stammered. "Fez and a bow tie, got to have those."

That was entirely unrelated to flirting.

…wait. Why was he trying to flirt again?

"Is that what that's called?" Mal asked. "That red hat of yours? Fez?"

"Yes, fez, I wear a fez, fezzes are cool now," Eleven jabbered. "I should go. Get it. My fez. It's, um. In my bunk actually." He could feel his blush darkening. "But my other clothes, clothes first, in the TARDIS. So I'll just be. Heading down. Now. For clothes. Several clothes, actually, so I don't do this every day because, well, it's just a towel, and…Clothes."

"You keep sayin' that," Mal said, sounding half curious, half awkward, and partly something else Eleven didn't know. "But you're still standin' in that there towel."

"Yes," Eleven said. "Very good point. Goodbye."

He slipped out the door, a lot more embarrassed than he should be. He wore towels. Towels were cool.

**11**

The next few days were some of the most awkward of Eleven's life. Eleven wasn't sure if he was avoiding Mal or purposefully spending time with him, creating a very on-off situation. Breakfast together on the stairs up to the control room because the kitchen was too crowded, followed not remotely acknowledging each other in the hallways. A brief comment about his fez, followed by making fun of his bow tie, which involved pulling on it and touching it and a lot of closeness. Mal running a job by Eleven, asking for his opinion, followed by Eleven replying that he never had a plan, he just went. Then they didn't see each other for a day.

Eleven used that day to talk to Inara. It was a little awkward because she wouldn't allow him in her quarters in a way that made it more than obvious she was entertaining, and instead took him to the common area downstairs. Of course then it was more awkward because he was asking someone he barely knew how to flirt, and since he refused to tell her who it was she kept insisting she couldn't help. He did get a few pointers, though—use his awkwardness to his advantage by being bumbling and adorable, if he was shorter and smaller then come off as cute and cuddly and if he was taller and broader then go for manly (which he found hilarious but also irrelevant as Mal was significantly bigger than he was), and the obvious: listen well, try not to talk as much and use complete sentences while still being himself, use physical contact but only when not too obvious, give space and time to ruminate on him and miss him, at least as much as one could in Serenity.

Eleven felt he knew all of that.

He also compared Inara's advice against how Mal was acting. It was not entirely unrelated. In fact, it seemed very related. But while he was very good at reading people in terms of catastrophe, and reading catastrophe itself, he had no idea how to know if someone was flirting with him. River Song flirted, but as he was fairly certain they were married at some point and possibly that she had killed him, he didn't think that counted. Jack had flirted with his past selves, but those weren't him. Amy hadn't flirted with him exactly, but there was the night before her wedding when she had tried to sleep with him, and then again the night her divorce was finalized, but the first had ended in immediately running off in the TARDIS and the second in a breakdown.

So no, he wasn't sure how to pick up on interest, and Inara refused further help unless he said who he wanted. Which was fair but unhelpful.

Eleven was nervous but resolved to spend time with Mal that night when he got back from his job. Instead Mal spent several hours in the infirmary having a bullet removed, and then sleeping off the pain medication in his bunk. Eleven had a moment of panic when he heard Mal had been shot, but he was quickly reassured that it was a common enough occurrence, and he shouldn't worry. Inara gave him a knowing look, which he completely ignored.

The next day, day seven of being on Serenity, Eleven was determined. He made two bowls of oatmeal and two cups of tea, somehow managing to juggle the bowls and cups down to Mal's bunk. He knocked with his foot, nearly unbalancing.

"Mmn, what gorram time—_uhhhg_, fine, what?"

Eleven pushed the door open, again with his foot, this time nearly falling down the ladder. "I have food," he said. "And tea."

"Did you add water, or is it just a heated up teabag and powdered oats?" Mal asked. He had slung an arm over his eyes, and moved slightly, peering over his arm.

"Yes, quite sure," Eleven replied. "But, ah, if you want privacy, you didn't sound like you wanted company, I can just drop it off."

Mall rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up onto his elbows before wincing and falling back down. Eleven made it down the ladder and closed the hatch without spilling anything, setting the food and tea on the bedside table, and pushed his hair out of his face without thinking about it. Mal gave him an odd look.

"I don't do guns," Eleven said. "Guns are bad. They're—messy, and undignified. Very loud, too."

Mal glared at him. "Remember what I keep sayin'? Stop insultin' me, my boat, my crew, and my life. If I didn't have a gun, I'd be sullied by a mite more bullets than I'm currently carryin', that bein' none due to our own doctor."

Eleven felt himself shrink again. Mal did that to him. He supposed that went along with Inara's advice, though he wasn't thrilled with seeming small and insignificant.

"Right," Eleven said. "I have oatmeal."

Mal gave him a complicated look. "So you've said, and so's I can smell. Would you be interested in handin' it to me, as I'm not in a particularly mobile position?"

"Yes, definitely." Eleven handed him the bowl, then propped the small pile of pillows up into a headrest so Mal could eat more comfortably, generating an even more complicated look.

"I reckon I can handle my own bed," he said. "Includin' my pillows."

Eleven blushed immediately. "Yes, but you winced, so I thought I could help you not wince, and that might be good."

Mal pushed himself further up, taking full advantage of the pillows. "I ain't used to acceptin' help."

"Just pillows," Eleven replied nervously.

"And oatmeal," Mal added, finally taking a bite, bringing the bowl up to his mouth rather than leaning over it. "That isn't _completely useless_, 'Verse knows how."

"I can cook," Eleven protested. "Toast, omelettes, spaghetti, soup, ah…"

"Oatmeal," Mal added. "Roughly speakin'. Not quite A grade, but I imagine that's more due to the source than your cookin' skills."

They sat in silence as Mal ate, Eleven first squatting, then kneeling, and finally sitting next to his bed.

"You're a mite restless this fine morning," Mal commented.

"I don't like guns, and I don't like bullets, and I don't like seeing you hurt," Eleven said bravely.

"I told you, I'm none worse for wear," Mal replied. "Lead free, hole fixed up, defibrillated when I quit wantin' to live, so I was told, and all the Propoxine I could want. Ain't no need to worry."

Eleven put a hand on Mal's arm without thinking, all his thoughts taken up by what he had said. "Your heart stopped?"

Mal huffed irritably. "Not since yesterday! I'm tryin' to eat here, _stop talking_."

"Right," Eleven said vaguely. He hated guns, and this was a perfect example of why. He noticed Mal didn't shake his hand off, and he decided keeping it there was a good idea. It fell in line with what Inara had suggested at any rate, and she could probably be trusted.

More silence, reigning until Mal finished the oatmeal. Looking extremely displeased, he said, "Mind puttin' this back on the table? I'm a bit on the drift when it comes to turnin' around."

"Absolutely," Eleven said, taking the bowl and setting it down next to his, which was full and untouched. It could wait; right now he was too busy enjoying Mal's company and paying very close attention to what he said, just in case his brain decided to run away with his mouth. "Tea?"

"Think lettin' my stomach settle might be wise," he replied, closing his eyes. His hand went to his right ribs and he winced as he gently explored the area. "One thing about guns, they tire you out awful quick if you happen to be on the receivin' end."

"Do you need anything?" Eleven asked, half worrying about where the overstepping line was but mostly not caring. He figured bullets beat overprotection and fussing. "Water, a compress?"

Mal opened his eyes again, assessing Eleven, who had to stop himself from squirming under his gaze. "You're a real _oddball_, y'know that? Can't quite figure you out."

Eleven wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. "And you only know one of me," he said, opting for humor. "Imagine trying to figure out three at once. Or, Gallifrey forbid, eleven."

Mal groaned. "Don't you go jokin' about that, lest you bring more _trouble_ down on us." He paused. "So where is this Gallifrey of yours? I'm pretty familiar with _everything under the sky_, but I don't recollect that particular name."

Eleven fidgeted again. "It's gone now. I don't know where it falls on your timeline, but it's been gone for a long time."

Mal's eyes hardened. "Sounds more familiar than I'd wish on either of us."

Eleven tugged at his jacket sleeve. "Right." He brightened, refusing to let a sick Mal slip into depression as well as pain. The fact that being in a good mood helped his own agenda was incidental, almost. "So, where'd you get shot?"

"I been shot everywhere one time or another," Mal replied, pride creeping in. Mission accomplished, even if it wasn't in a way Eleven liked. "This time they got my ribs, right where it makes movin' difficult. Mind it weren't due to skill, just the place where myself happened to be at the time." He pushed down again and winced. "There's a box on the table. Mind handin' it over?"

"I—yeah, I…You're taking your shirt off."

Mal was doing exactly that, revealing more and more of what Eleven was more and more desperate to have.

Mal shot him a smile. "I been more naked than this, and in much worse conditions. Just need to change my bandage is all; I aim to be done as quick as possible, get it out of the way while the meds are still around. I expect after the towel you didn't have a mind for modesty, but if it send you out atmo, you can always turn 'round. I got nothin' to be ashamed of."

"I, no, yeah, it's fine," Eleven stammered. He fumbled with the box, nearly dropping it into his oatmeal, and handed it to Mal, who was now entirely naked from the waist up with the exception of a gauze bandage taped to his side. "Need help?"

Mal quirked an eyebrow, still smiling. "First you get all moonbrained over the idea of me losin' a shirt, and now you're offerin' help?"

"Common courtesy," Eleven choked out. He kept his eyes on Mal's, for the most part. "Helping. I'm a Doctor, I help."

"Not as much with medicine, from what I hear," Mal replied, carefully unsticking the tape and, with a wince and a pained hiss, pulled off the gauze. A smallish red hole pierced through his side, though Eleven had to admit it didn't look too bad, at least as far as bullet wounds went. The skin around the edges was already starting to knit back together, nothing was swollen or inflamed, and scar tissue was already threatening to take over what skin and hole there was. Eleven let his eyes flick to the rest of his chest; he had his fair share of scars, some obviously from bullets and others more mysterious.

"Once you've taken in what there's to be taken, I wouldn't turn down that offer of help," Mal said, jerking Eleven out of his thoughts. He flushed darkly, but he also saw a light tinge of pink on Mal's cheeks. "Twistin' around, y'know, not so great on the ribs."

Eleven swallowed dryly. "Yeah. Help, I can help. I'm good at helping. That's what I do, I help. Run around the universe, helping those who need help, trying to peace or sometimes destruction, depending on the occasion, but I always help, at least I try to, and—"

"As flattering as it is that you can't seem to form a coherent sentence when I'm divested of my clothing, it's be real pretty to get this over with," Mal interrupted, still with the blush, still with the smile.

"Yes," Eleven said, not trusting himself with more words. "Okay. Got it."

**12**

Eleven opened the box. There were two small vials, a few squares of gauze, a roll of medical tape, and a bottle. He noted Simon had labeled each one; clearly he didn't trust Mal to remember on his own. It could have been due to the pain killers, but Eleven didn't think so. The labels each had a large number in addition to the instructions, and Eleven picked up the first vial.

_One_

_To be applied, with Q-tip, inside the wound._

_Use once an hour until there is no more red._

Eleven hadn't noticed, but there were indeed a small handful of Q-tips hiding under the gauze. He opened the vial, swabbed a Q-tip, and hovered.

"I think this might hurt," he said.

"Reckon it wouldn't work if it don't," Mal replied, though Eleven saw him grip his blankets. "Go on, _hurry up_."

Eleven carefully dipped the slicked cotton into the hole. Mal hissed, eyes flying closed, clenching his jaw.

"I'm sorry," Eleven said regretfully. "Truly. But the faster—"

"Yeah, I gorram got the ruttin' principle o' the matter," Mal snapped. "Stop stickin' things inside me unless you plan on doin' a lot more than gorram _swabbing_."

Eleven jerked, and Mal let out a pained groan as Eleven lost track of what he was supposed to be doing. Was that a—a _proposition_? Eleven still hadn't worked out how to know when even he was flirting, let alone Mal, and then that.

"Sorry," Eleven rushed. "So sorry, just got distracted there for a mo', back to work. Done with the—ah, penetration." Mal didn't reply as he tossed the Q-tip away and pulled out the second vial.

_Two_

_Rub around the edges of the wound._

_Keep an eye on the size of the wound, and reapply when it stops shrinking._

_Continue until the wound is entirely closed._

"Sorry," Eleven repeated nervously, pouring a small amount of ointment onto two fingers. "More rubbing."

"Rubbin' ain't penetratin'," Mal replied, unclenching his muscles and opening his eyes. "Rub away."

That look, what was that look? It should have been pain and resentment, but while that was part of it, the majority was something else. Something dark and smoky. His eyes were dark blue, so dark, and he was looking at him like—

"Well?" Mal said, interrupting Eleven's thoughts. "Are we doin' this or not?"

Eleven flushed. "Yes. Sorry." He tentatively brushed where the skin had already started to knit back together, first circling the somewhat healthy skin before moving inwards to what would hurt. Mal tightened his jaw again but otherwise didn't show any pain. "Are you okay?"

"Plumb shiny," he grunted.

Hating himself, the last bit of self control Eleven had managed to hold onto slipped away, and certain parts of his own body started to seek attention.

"I'm sorry," he said yet again, voice cracking.

"Yeah, got that by now," Mal replied, voice a little calmer. "Cooling. It's good. Y'all can keep doin' that a bit longer, if it suits."

Eleven's hearts were slamming around and he repositioned himself, just in case Mal had wandering eyes. He dripped a few drops onto his skin, and Mal sighed. Eleven carefully rubbed it in, sitting on his left hand in case it wandered. He had a tendency to wander.

Not like this, though.

"A—any more?" Eleven asked, voice still unsteady.

"Probably shouldn't waste it," Mal said, briefly closing his eyes, no doubt at hatred for responsibility. "Could be needin' it for a mite longer. If not now, later." He gestured to his chest, which Eleven took as permission to once again sweep his eyes across his body. "There's those who look worse. Jayne's got a fair few holes in him, and a proclivity to attract more."

"You look…" Eleven trailed off as Mal watched him curiously. "Like a fighter."

Mal's interest faded. "Imagine I do."

"And other things," Eleven continued quickly. "Like, ah, uh. You." He reached into the box, frantically pulling out the third item. It was gauze, very thin.

_Three_

_Breathable gauze, to avoid infection and protect the wound._

_Change dressing as necessary. Which is more than never, don't try to slip it by me._

_Continue use until the wound has scarred over._

"Like you need gauze," Eleven said. "Lie still."

Mal did, shifting slightly. "Done with the hard part, imagine."

Eleven shifted as well. "Yup, just gauze and tape. Coverings. To avoid infection. No more contact, penetrating, rubbing, or otherwise."

"That'd be a shame under different circumstances," Mal replied. "As it is, shiny news."

"Yes, ah, well." Eleven's hands were shaking as he carefully arranged the bandage before settling it on his skin. He let his fingers brush along Mal's skin, disappointed and confused when he didn't get a reaction. "Hurt?" he asked. "That? Did it hurt?"

"I can handle gauze," Mal said. "Ain't nothin' compared to that damned swab."

"The bullet itself?" Eleven asked, needing to occupy his brain somehow, because clearly letting his mind wander wasn't acceptable.

_Four_

_Thicker gauze, again to fight infection._

_Change with the other dressings._

"Adrenaline's pumpin' too hard to notice much," Mal said. His face, which had been open and expressive before, was closing off. "Slight inconvenience, nothin' more."

"And after?" Eleven asked, adding the second layer of gauze. "Between the fight and the pain medication?"

"Pretty and shiny," Mal said sarcastically. "Just about my favorite. Love it so much my heart stopped on account of the feelin'."

"I'm." Eleven stopped.

_Five_

_Medical tape. Secure the gauze with a strip on each side._

_Use sparingly but not stupidly so. Don't pick at it._

_Discard after each use._

Eleven secured the bandages, once again letting his fingers linger, trying to make it more obvious. The question was whether or not Mal was upset about the initial touch or the lack of reciprocity about what he had said. It was just he had no idea how to respond.

"After?" Eleven blurted out.

Mal eyed him. "Doin' what after what?"

Eleven licked his lips nervously and put the tape away.

_Six_

_Propoxine._

_One to two tablets every four to six hours as needed._

_Do not exceed eight tables in a day._

_It's useless to say, but take it if you need it. Don't torture yourself._

"Do you want a Propoxine?" Eleven asked.

"Don't wanna go all moonbrained on m'self," Mal replied. "Never know when you need a sharply tuned brainpan."

Eleven gently traced his fingers over Mal's forehead, who cocked an eyebrow, silently asking for an explanation.

"The note specifically says not to torture yourself," Eleven said. "Take it if you need it."

"And you can gauge my level of pain by touchin' my forehead," Mal stated.

"No," Eleven replied bravely. "No, I—ah…" He swallowed. He wasn't used to this sort of thinking. "After, it's after now. Sometimes after happens. All the time, actually, unless the universe ended. Which it did, a while ago, but then I fixed it and there was still an after, so—"

"Stop," Mal interrupted. "Just—what about after?"

Eleven slammed the box down on the table—accidentally, he was just in a hurry—and pushed himself away from the bed. "Nothing, nothing whatsoever, I was thinking, I do that sometimes, I think, and I—I think I should go, or…"

Mal suddenly smirked, eyes fixed on Eleven but considerably lower than his face. "_Old friend, you're looking lively_."

"Yup, that's me, full of life," Eleven continued, not sure when he last breathed. His lungs were starting to get upset with him. "Full, full, full of life, and I'm just going to go—um, do something somewhere else, and let you rest, and I will see you later."

Eleven started to move away, and Mal reached out and took hold of one of his suspenders. Eleven froze.

"That ain't the sort of lively I was aimin' for, nor the sort you seem to be sportin'."

Eleven glanced down to where Mal was looking. He closed his eyes, uttering a quiet whimper of embarrassment.

"No, please—please don't," he said, voice growing quieter. "I'm not—I'm nine hundred and seven, and you're human, and I'm—you're, one of us, I mean—"

"Shut your gorram mouth," Mal ordered. He yanked on the suspender and Eleven lost his balance, sprawling onto the bed. Even as muddled as he was, he made sure to keep his weight off Mal's wound. "I know what you are and I know what I am, and there's things I care a lot more about than that."

Not quite sure how, Eleven found himself being kissed. Rough, insistent lips pushing against his, forcing him to go along with it, mostly stopping was impossible. He kept one hand on the bed, supporting his weight off Mal's side and braced the other on the wall, giving himself an opportunity to pull away but not taking it. The hand that Mal had on his suspender flattened, resting low on his chest, and the other went to the back of his neck, anchoring them together.

"Gorrammit," Mal gasped, separating them. "Ruttin' waste of a bullet, diggin' into my head…"

Eleven jumped off him, aware he was flailing and unable to stop. "You got shot in the _head_?"

Mal laughed breathlessly. "No, _idiot_. Do I look corpsified to you?" He reached beneath his pillows and pulled out a shiny red apple. He tossed it at Eleven, who managed to recover enough to catch it. "Brought you this. Don't need to be cooked or nothin'. Hard to get 'round these parts, but I figure it'd be better than bringin' down the whole kitchen."

Eleven looked at the apple, hopelessly torn.

Mal groaned. "Let me guess. You haven't got a likin' for apples."

"No," Eleven replied miserably.

"Give it here, then, and don't go mentionin' it around," Mal said, taking the apple and stashing it back beneath his pillows. "Call it a reward for gettin' shot." He gave Eleven a sly look. "You aimin' to come back, or are we _finished_?"

"No," Eleven replied immediately.

Mal frowned. "No what? No comin' back or no, we're done?"

"What—what would we, ah, be?" Eleven asked awkwardly, straightening his suspender.

"Don't matter what it's called," Mal replied carefully. "Long as we got an understandin'."

"An understanding?" Eleven echoed.

"I reckon you know the type I'm referrin' to," Mal said shrewdly.

"And—after?" Eleven asked again.

This time Mal understood him immediately. "Don't know," he said. "I reckon that'd be up to you. I ain't inclined to have an understandin' lest it's mite longer, but—" He struggled for words. "There've been worse understandin's." He looked back up at Eleven, eyes locking. "Have we got an understandin', then?"

Eleven adjusted his fez, which Mal had nearly knocked off. Then his bow tie, which didn't need adjusting. His suspenders, which he had just fixed. A failed attempt at rearranging his slacks in a less obvious way.

"Yeah, understanding," he proclaimed. "I can, we can have an understanding, an understanding sounds good. I like understandings. Understandings are cool."

The sly smile again. "Then I reckon you ought to be comin' back on over." Eleven took a nervous step forward. "Minus the fez, lest you fancy tryin' to find it after."

Eleven carefully set his fez down next to his uneaten oatmeal and the untouched tea.

They remained untouched for quite some time.


End file.
